


The One With the Wrong Half of a Script, Missing Paychecks, and Where the Fuck's My Coffee

by ifreet



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-29
Updated: 2007-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comment fic to akarui_rynka's prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With the Wrong Half of a Script, Missing Paychecks, and Where the Fuck's My Coffee

Most people assumed the now-legendary duel at university was somehow Darren's fault.

This was not true. It was entirely Geoffrey's fault.

Well. Perhaps some blame adhered to Professor Dekker, too, for assigning them both to the same workshop unit.

But mostly Geoffrey.

Geoffrey--though even then Darren would've been damned before he'd admit it aloud--was a bit of a genius. Acting came easily to him--or at least, he made it _seem_ as though it did, which was a fine bit of acting in itself. Geoffrey seemed instinctively to know what worked, what didn't, how to fix it. He was born for the stage.

Darren had made himself over for the stage. He liked it, and he certainly enjoyed having every eye in the house on him. But it never came easy. In those early days, though, he was convinced that theatre could Do Something. What that something might be was admittedly hazy, but important. He could feel it. So he threw everything he had into figuring it out.

Darren studied theatre, its history and theory. He took literature courses-- the obvious Shakespeare classes and Elizabethan Drama: Issues of Gender and Sexuality, of course, but also Literary Interpretation, Feminist Theory, and Postmodernism. He picked up a psychology class on the effect of light and color on the human psyche. He poured himself into his studies. Anything that might get him closer to understanding that Something.

Even though he and Geoffrey were sometimes in productions together, they'd rarely shared a class before they were assigned to the same workshop group in Stage Direction: Theory and Practice. Though it was little consolation at the time, Dekker threw out the course's experimental format after that single, disastrous semester.

Darren quickly learned that Geoffrey really was working on instinct most of the time. He had clear ideas of what "worked" and what "didn't," but he lacked the vocabulary--and the patience--to explain why to his co-director. Eventually, Darren figured out the problem. Darren wanted to put on a performance; Geoffrey wanted to make it real.

Darren was disappointed, of course. The department idol was now brought low, revealed as incapable of rising above mere plodding realism to Art. After a long night spent in his favorite coffeehouse and hours of internal debate, Darren decided to let Geoffrey have his way. It would be enough for a passing grade; deeper interpretation of the text could wait until his name stood alone.

During the next workshop meeting, Darren opened his script to the third act--only to find it missing, replaced with a second first act.

"What the hell? What happened to my script?"

Geoffrey glanced over. "Switched it with mine. I only just noticed the misprint, and the bookstore wouldn't take it back this late in the semester."

"So you decided you'd just stick me with your problem?"

"You said you'd memorized this play."

"_Practically_ memorized, thank you. And that's not the point!"

Of course, then Jane interrupted with a problem with her blocking, and Shawn needed Darren up in the booth, and with one thing and another Darren never did get his book back. The next day, he spent most of his laundry money running photocopies of his missing scenes. It seemed easier.By opening night, Darren had made peace with the fact that Geoffrey left most of the day to day grunt work in his hands. The nature of group work usually meant the most studious one did the most work, because he was the one most likely to care about the grade. But his class schedule on Thursday was tight, so he'd left one assignment in Geoffrey's hands. Just one: Stop by the department office and pick up the paychecks.

That was all he'd asked. And yet, Darren had been harassed by ... well, everyone not getting class credit. He'd apologized, but somehow that only made things worse, and someone suggested that maybe they should hold the curtain until they were paid. So he went to Geoffrey, who just shrugged and said he'd forgotten.

"Geoffrey! This is a job! These people expect to be paid!"

Geoffrey tipped his head back and forth, a gesture that could carry any meaning or none. He hopped up center stage, commanding everyone's attention in that way he had.

And let fly with a stream of bull the likes of which Darren had never heard before. About theatre and emotional truth. No structure, no theory to unify it. But everyone _nodded_. They ate it up and agreed to go on, even though they hadn't been paid yet.

But Darren still got dirty looks.

By closing night, and thank God it was a short run, Darren knew Geoffrey had taken over in every way that mattered. He'd kept a firm lid on his resentment, but he knew he'd effectively been demoted to gofer and worse, most of the cast and crew knew it, too.

Darren leaned against the brick wall backstage and watched sullenly as the business of the theatre carried on around him. One last night and he would be rid of this hideous play, this ridiculous assignment and Geoffrey Tennant. He just had to endure.

He picked up his coffee cup, sipped, and did a classic spit take. Unsweetened, strong black coffee. "Where the fuck's my coffee?"

Geoffrey looked over from his rapid-fire discussion with Shawn, who had been telling him it was too late to change that number of cues. "You're drinking it."

Darren pushed himself off the wall and stomped over. Grabbing the paper cup out of Geoffrey's hand, he popped the lid. Just as he thought--it was the perfect milky, tan color and smelled of sugar and cinnamon. "No, you're drinking it. You wanted, and I quote, 'Coffee, black.'"

Geoffrey looked at him with a faintly puzzled expression. "Exactly."

Really, challenging him to a duel on the quad was the only logical response.


End file.
